Modern day cave paintings; doodles without destination. Deco gate protects against any further attacks. Fire alarms, hydrant hookups, and water meters; unscathed.

Four descending rust splotches, rickety roll-up, and wet aggregate. Ground-level floor, street access, bookstore.

Blistered plywood, graffiti repainted. Jam-side encroaching vine, repatched and repainted wall after a fresh rain.

Two-tone wall with sodium light and greasy maroon stairs. Rogue pigeon perched on the precipice, praying for provisions...possibly.

A worn out reflective sunshade provides a fun-house-mirror glimpse of surrounding suburbia.

A sickly gate encloses the dusty frame. The warped and buckled siding puckers away from the surface. Mismatched paint in the grout lines suggests a quick and dirty cover-up.

Slap-dash frame with plywood front quickly thrown up, the worn and weathered whitewashed wood wildly bends, pinches, and distorts akin to tiger strips and lava lamps.

The sea breeze bathes Dock 107 in marine grunge. The soft, aged wood breathes in the animate air, forming a briny crust for the moss to affix itself to.

Iridescent like crows wings, the recessed entrance escapes first glance. The outside color is dimly reflected by the dull sheen, the blackest mirror you ever did see.

Small craters, moon-like surface. Rusty wheel marks.

French-fry moldings, anti-skip tread, imprisoned warning light. Various dents and bolts, a long, sneaking, grease stain runs down from the lock.

In between the redwood bark and aggregate trashcan, a mysterious mechanistic portal to the unknown. Dare to ring the door bell? Only the authorized may enter.